A Supernatural Christmas Carol
by lexwang
Summary: You know the story already.
1. Chapter 1

**  
Please give me a review if you can. I love to read them, always respond and they make me a better writer. Tell me what you like, what you hate, and anything you think can be improved upon. Bring it...**

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**Christmas Eve, 2008 **

Dean's eyes snap open, heart pounding, hairs on the back of his neck at attention. Sitting up in bed, he squints in the dark, past the shadows, searching the room for any movement, any twitch of abnormal, any sign of what woke him. Snoring from his brother in the next bed lowers his internal alarm a decibel, though it still jangles enough to make going back to sleep impossible.

Huh…all seems quiet enough. His ears prick up and he tilts his head, disbelieving his own senses. Is that…it is! What the hell-?

He gets out of bed, rubbing the last of sleep from his face and listens intently. There it is again! Crossing to the window, he pushes back the curtain slightly, barely moving the fabric enough for one eye to peek out.

A lone figure, his back to Dean, stands just outside their motel room, sleigh bells dangling from a loosely held fist. As if on cue, the person begins to shake the bells without pause, the annoying jingle-tinkle making Dean's teeth hurt the same way as fingernails on a blackboard.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, Dean puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head in disgust. Freaking bitch doesn't even care if people are sleeping! It's the middle of the freaking night!

"Great…," he grumbles quietly, careful not to wake Sam. Poor kid's had a rough enough time these past few months…better to let him sleep.

Fuming, Dean slides on his boots and grabs his coat, muttering in his head, "Middle of the night…now, I'm gonna freeze my ass off..."

Yanking open the door and stepping out into the frigid December wind, he shuts it firmly behind him before moving forward, shouting, "Hey! Dude! Some people are sleeping here! Take your jingle bell crap somewhere else or I'll shove 'em where the sun don't shine!"

The tinkling of the bells fades away, leaving a peaceful silence in its wake as the tall, imposing figure slowly turns towards Dean.

Dean skids to a stop in mid-huff, taking in the familiar smile, the sad, gentle eyes. His mind turns away, tries to deny what his eyes have touched upon, the unbelievable, the impossible, the wished for.

"Dad?" he croaks in disbelief. "Is that you?"

"Hello, Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean pushes down the hope that springs up in his heart "What is this, some sort of sick joke? Who are you? Or should I ask…what are you?"

"Dean, it's me…"

"Yeah, and I'm Santa Clause. What are you, a changeling or a shape shifter? Cause you sure as hell aren't my dad…"

A sigh and then, "Dean, prove to yourself it's me…you got holy water? I'll drink it…you got a silver knife? Go ahead…cut me. It's me, Dean..."

Dean digs his hands in the pockets of his jacket, coming up with a small vial. He opens it, throwing it in the other man's face where it drips to the ground harmlessly.

The man wipes his face, "It's me, Dean."

Pulling a switchblade out of his back pocket, Dean clicks it open, waggling it at his 'dad', who sighs deeply and pushes up his sleeve, baring one arm for the next test.

Dean slices deep, grimly satisfied with the flash of red that begins to run down the man's arm, seeing nothing more than a wince of pain on his father's face. Without giving a warning, Dean reaches up to grab at the other man's ear, pulling as hard as he can, trying to wrench it off but no matter how much he yanks, it refuses to budge.

"Ow! Ok…I think that's enough, son!"

Still with a death grip on the man's ear, Dean grits his teeth, "I say when it's enough, you evil son of a --"

"Dean, I said let go!" The man lands a chop on Dean's bicep, just hard enough to loosen the grip on his ear. He grabs Dean by his shoulders, giving a sharp shake to get his attention, and watches the anger change to uncertainty on his eldest son's face.

"It can't be you, Dad…you're dead. How am I seeing this? Am I back in hell or something? Is this some sort of sick demon joke?"

John releases his grip on Dean's shoulders, dropping his hands to his sides, "No joke, son, it's really me. I'm able to come back for just this one night to see you and…to help you, to stop you."

"Stop me? Stop me from what?"

"From killing yourself! You torture yourself every waking moment...despise yourself because of what you became in hell, because of what you did there and each day, another piece of you dies. Soon, there's gonna be nothing left of you but an empty shell...you're gonna be dried up, burned out...It can't go on, Dean. You're my son, I love you and I'm here to tell you that you've gotta forgive yourself before you …it's not just you, Dean, it's Sam, too. You're killing both of you now...Sammy needs you, now more than ever…you have to stop for both of your sakes."

Dean's eyes fill with tears and his throat closes, making it difficult to talk, "You …don't …know…"

"I don't? I know you feel worthless, ashamed...full of so much guilt you can't meet your own eyes in the mirror in the morning…I know the hate in your heart roars in your ears until it's all you can think about…it's all you are…until you drink it away for a couple of hours…but it always comes back, doesn't it?"

Dean's face works helplessly, his lower lip quivering as a tear slides down his cheek and he inhales a shaky breath, "How do you…how can you…?"

"Son…" His dad reaches out to touch his shoulder, squeezing it gently, "I know. _I know._ Because I broke after twenty years…"

Stunned at the thought of his hero, his _DAD_, having his spirit beaten and broken and becoming a tormentor in hell just like he had, Dean can do nothing but reach up to squeeze his father's hand, letting the tears roll down his face.

"You're strong, Dean. Your heart is good. My heart is black and old and I forgave myself a long time ago. You need to do the same. Don't let those bastards define you. Look at all the good you've done in your life. Those things are all that matter! Those things are what make you Dean, my son…not how easy you think you broke. No one else could have withstood the pain and torment for as long as you did. Forgive yourself, son."

"Dad…" Dean swallows hard, trying to get out words, "I'm trying…I don't know how…I can't get rid of the nightmares…"

His dad steps closer to him and whispers in his ear, "Let me help you. Close your eyes."


	3. Chapter 3

Wind rushes past Dean as he soars eagle-like through the night, his body buffeted, tugged by the cold gusts swirling around him, not even feeling the frigid air as he flies. With a thump, he lands on his butt in a snow drift outside a cheap motel, feeling a strange sense of familiarity sweep over him as he climbs out, cursing and brushing off his pants, looking at the buildings in front of him.

Dad beckons to him from an open doorway. Dean cautiously joins him, part of him still mistrusting if it's really Dad, and peeks into the room. In an instant, he knows why the motel seems so familiar, even frightening to him as he walks in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Dean sees a young Dean, about ten years old, alone in the motel room with his brother, as so often happened when they were young. Tonight, young Dean is holding vigil over Sam as he sleeps, bottle of holy water and his sawed-off shotgun in hand, sitting bolt upright in an easy chair, his feet swinging off the floor.

"Do you remember this Christmas Eve, Dean?" John gently asks.

Nodding, Dean murmurs, "I think so…Didn't Sam get into one of your books and conjure up something by accident? What was it…some demon that liked to eat the fat off children or something…I had to sit up all night just to make sure the damn thing didn't find us and have us for dinner…"

The door is suddenly ripped off its hinges and blown inward as a hungry Nygeda demon rushes in, spots a sleeping Sam and makes a bee-line for him, fangs already dripping with anticipation of tasting the sweet fat of this child.

Young Dean jumps down, scrambling to get between the monster and his brother, fearless and ferocious, blocking the creature's path and surprising the ugly thing mid-stride. The demon stops short, uncertain what this thing is in it's way...it looks like a child but smells mean and dangerous...not sweet and innocent like the one in the bed. The demon takes a menacing step towards the boy who's challenging him and suddenly its flesh is on fire, sizzling and smoking from the liquid the child-thing threw in its face. With a strangled cry, the Nygeda touches the burns on its face and decides retreat is the best course of action, turning on its heel and taking two hops towards the door. Young Dean stands with feet apart and takes careful aim, looking down the barrel of his 'shotty' towards an imaginary target smack dab in the middle of the demon's back. The creature feels the sting of the rock salt as it hits its mark, the burn spreading over its whole body, the force of the shot throwing it headlong into the air, where, with a loud pop, it disintegrates into a cloud of dust.

Sammy stirs and rolls over.

Dean goes over to the bed quickly, putting the shotgun on the floor and pushing it underneath the bed with a toe.

"Dean?" His brother looks up at him sleepily, "Is everything ok?"

"Shhh, Sammy, go back to sleep…I just had a nightmare…woke myself up but everything's fine…" He pets his little brother's hair until Sam is lightly snoring again.

Dean goes to the doorway, looks out into the quiet night and examines the gaping hole where the door should be. He struggles to heft up the door and push it back into place, barring it with a chair under the knob so no more unwelcome visitors come crawling in from the night. Turning, he finally breathes, letting the tension release from his shoulders, feeling his whole body begin to relax. By the time he reaches his bed and climbs in, he's yawning, falling asleep instantly when his head touches the pillow.

John leans over to adult Dean and whispers "You were all he had…you spent most of your nights like this, watching over him, protecting him, keeping him alive. You raised him…you did…not me. Made him into the man he is today because he had you as an example. You were everything to him, son…his whole world. I couldn't have wished for anyone better…you loved him more than life itself and everything you did, everything you are, you gave to him because you loved him. You matter, son."

Dad grabs Dean's wrist and in the blink of an eye, they are in Sam's college dorm room.

It's Christmas morning and Sam is just waking up, stretching and rolling around in bed, relishing being lazy. A rustling at his feet gets his attention and he sits up to gaze upon brightly wrapped presents piled on the foot of his bed. He gives a slight smile and shakes his head at his brother's weird tradition.

It never fails…year after year, where ever Sam is, Dean comes in the night to deliver Christmas presents to him. They're usually small gifts, never expensive and sometimes silly, sometimes stolen, but in an odd way, Sam has come to count on them just as he's always counted on Dean. Even with their lives so separate now, even not seeing each other for months and not getting along when they _do_ see each other, Sam knows his brother will drop everything and come in a heartbeat if Sam needs him.

Sam reaches down to pick up a package, examining it closely to see that it's unsigned, as usual…as if Dean doesn't want him to know who's responsible, but Sam knows...sure as he knows his own name. With a child's excitement, Sam rips open a package, revealing a brown hooded sweatshirt that Sam looks over with pleasure and immediately puts on.

Watching as Sam continues to open his presents, John looks at Dean, "Why didn't you ever tell him they were from you?"

Uncomfortable, his eldest son shrugs and mumbles, "He didn't want to know us, Dad…he wanted us to leave him alone but I just couldn't. He's my brother. I had to take care of him…it's my job."

John motioned towards the presents, "That wasn't your job. That was your heart and your love. That's who you _are_, son."

His father takes his wrist and a second later, they are standing back outside Dean's motel room, the sleigh bells still on the sidewalk where John dropped them.

"Dean…those bastards in hell did everything they could to get you to fall…they had to…you were clean and pure of heart…you reeked of it and that was the foulest stench they'd ever come across. They had to beat you down, wreck you, shatter you…their very existence depended on it. When you finally…finally were defeated, they won…at least that's what they thought. What they didn't know is that your love…the very thing that polluted the air they breathed, wasn't vanquished. Nope…you did something even worse, something they never expected. You fought back still and hid it from their sight…buried it underneath so much hatred that they couldn't even sense it was there."

John reaches out to grip Dean's shoulder, his fingers squeezing tightly so his hard-headed son will understand, "It's still there, Dean…hidden, unbroken, whole…just waiting for you to release it again out into the light. Keep your hatred, yes, because it makes you sharp…but move it over, out of the way…so your love can come back into your heart. Sam needs it and God knows you do…"

Dean swallows hard, trying to control his emotions, "Dad…there's nothing…it'd be a miracle if I could feel anything…anything at all but there's nothing in here, Dad…" he thumps his chest angrily, "just an empty, giant hole I can't fill…I don't feel love, I don't feel hate…I don't feel…"

John smiles with his eyes, "You will, son…you will. Your journey's not done yet and I was only allowed to take you to your first destination. There'll be others who come to you tonight. Listen with your heart, son…listen and heal…"

"I…I have to go now, Dean…" his dad says softly.

"Can't you just…" Dean struggles to hold back tears, "I wish…you could stay…"

"I do, too but my time here is done. Remember I love you, Dean…and remember that Christmas is a time for miracles…"


	4. Chapter 4

Dean blinks and John is gone, the empty street staring back at him almost mockingly, as if Dad never was. Soft snow flakes fall quietly, a glint of metal catches his eye and he kneels, picking up the jingle bells, wiping them free of snow, hearing them jingle as they move…they're real…he's not crazy or dreaming or drunk…

"Hello, Dean…"

He spins around, almost falling on his butt as he slides in the snow. Catching his balance, Dean clamors to his feet, towering over the young girl standing before him.

"Jessica?"

She smiles sweetly, "It's good to see you, Dean."

"You're a ghost?" he reaches out, squeezing her arm firmly, feeling her real and warm under his palm.

At her nod, he drops his hand, rubbing it lightly on his pants, "Why are _you_ here? I mean, you were Sam's girlfriend…I barely knew you. No offense, but if this dream or fugue or whatever the hell I'm in right now is supposed to heal me from my time in hell, how is someone I met once supposed to help me?"

"Have faith, Dean…Listen and heal" Jessica echoes his Dad's words, causing Dean to relax his guard slightly.

"Come…" The girl takes his hand and leads him to his motel window. With a wave of her hand, the curtains part and, peering inside, Dean sees himself asleep in the bed. He gives Jessica an odd look and rubs the window free of the steam his breath makes on the glass.

He sees Sam moving quietly around the room so as not to wake him, donning his shoes and jacket, nabbing the keys to Baby from the leather coat hanging on a chair. Dean looks down at himself…the leather coat he's wearing right now…He rubs the material to verify his sanity and reaching into the pocket, feels the keys jingle there.

"When is this?" Dean asks hoarsely, "Is this right now?"

"As we are here, he is there." Jessica answers.

Sam opens the door and lets himself out into the night, passing by them without seeing and gets into the Impala, parked out front. He drives away swiftly, the car's tires slipping in the slushy snow as he guns the motor, intent on getting to wherever he's going as quickly as possible.

Dean looks at Jessica, "Where – ?"

Before he can finish the sentence, he feels the rush of wind as he soars through the air, flying behind the Impala into the night sky, Jessica at his side. He sees the car park in front of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town where another car waits, motor running. Dean comes down hard, sliding in the snow as soon as his feet touch down and almost taking a header into a snow bank. Jessica lands more lightly near him, raising her eyebrows at him with a smile.

Grumbling, Dean remarks, "You all really ought to work on letting people down a little easier…"

Silently, Jessica points to the person climbing out of the other car. With a grunt of recognition, Dean whispers "What's she doing here?"

The slight dark-haired woman, sunglasses covering her eyes, greets Sam warmly as he comes towards her, "Hey Grumpy!"

"Hey Pam…" Sam smiles at her, bending to give her a hug, "Thanks for coming so quickly."

"When a gorgeous man wants to see me in the middle of the night, I don't ask questions, you know? Just a sec, sweetie…" She calls back to her driver, "Johnny, go ahead and take off…I'm sure Sam'll get me home…that ok with you, Grumpy?"

At his nod, the woman smiles and points at her eyes, "Sam….blind remember? But since I'm psychic, I figure you just said yes…"

"Geez…I'm sorry…" Sam begins, mortified.

"No worries…" Pam takes his arm as she hears her car drive away, pulling him near to her "Sam…are you sure you want to do this? This is huge, life-changing stuff and you'll never be the same…your relationship with Dean will never be the same…"

"Yes, I'm sure. I have to know. I can't help Dean until I know." Sam's voice is determined.

"Well, I've never done anything like this before so we'll learn as we go, ok? Now, did you get everything I told you to?"

Sam leads her into the warehouse, going over the list of supplies he's brought.

Dean turns to Jessica, fear in his eyes "What the hell is he going to do?"

"Whatever he feels is necessary for him to understand and to help you" the girl replies quietly, "He loves you, Dean."

With a horrible sense of _knowing_, Dean's heart starts to pound in his chest, "Can I stop him? He can't do this! What the hell is he thinking? What the hell is _she_ thinking, helping him?"

"You can't stop anything from happening. It will be, no matter what you want."

"That's not good enough!" Dean dashes in front of Sam "No, Sammy! No! Don't do this…whatever you're thinking…don't…please…" His voice breaks at the end.

Sam continues forward, not seeing Dean at all and walks right through him. Pamela stops suddenly and reaches out an arm to halt Sam, listening intently.

"What is it?"

"It's Dean...he doesn't want this...I'm sensing his…fear…he's so scared for you, Sam…"

Sam firms his jaw, "Doesn't matter. I'm doing it anyway…" and leads her to a round table already drawn with symbols and set with candles. He helps her find her chair and grabs the matches, lighting the candles in the order she directs.

Dean grabs Jessica's arm, "Stop this…stop this now!"

"I have no power here and neither do you. We can only watch as events unfold…" She looks at Dean with sad eyes, "There's nothing you can do to change this…I'm sorry…"

Not even daring to breathe, Dean clenches and unclenches his fists, wishing he could just beat some sense into his stupid jerk of a brother. Helplessness washes over him and he now knows how Sam felt, watching him get ripped to shreds by hellhounds. Dean's eyes sting with hot tears as he whispers his wish over and over, "Don't do this….don't do this…"

"Sit there." Pamela points across the table, "Make sure your arms stay in contact with the baskania on each side…" She reaches for his hands.

"The baskania?"

"The eyes…there's one on each side of the candle in the center, right?"

"Yes, I see them…" Sam takes her hands, laying his arms directly over drawn pupils.

"Right…you ready, Sam?"

Taking a deep breath, Sam closes his eyes briefly to work up his courage and then nods, "I'm ready. Let's do this."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam's trip to Hell and back takes only a few minutes.

It seems an eternity.

Just a look, he wants, just a peek, one glimpse behind the veil at Dean's time in Hell, so he can help, sympathize, understand, _be there_ for his brother.

In Hell, Pamela's eyes can see but Sam won't let her. She descends with him to the pit but he walks first, hiding the madness from her view, using his large body as a shield and, once Sam feels he's close, stopping her, pushing her back towards the light before forging ahead into the abyss. He knows he must stand alone to face the horror, wanting only his eyes and no one else's to see his brother as he was. And God help him, he sees…

It is unspeakable.

When Pamela brings them back, Sam's hands are loose in her grasp. She shakes him lightly, "Sam? You with me?"

Silence.

"Sam?" she stands, feeling along the table, reaching for him. Her hands touch a slumped shoulder, the back of his neck and his head, hair hanging toward the floor. She cups his chin with both palms, feeling the slick tears under her thumbs.

"Oh, Grumpy…" she says softly and wraps her arms around his head, gently rocking him.

A sound grows from deep in his throat, a lonely, desolate wail that comes from his very soul. He hugs the psychic's waist, burying his head into her and sobs, his whole body trembling under her touch, struggling to hold back but unable to...

Dean stands in misery, his heart breaking as he watches Sam's reaction to whatever he saw, desperately hoping that Sam didn't go where Dean knows in his gut he did.

His fists clenched white, he takes a step towards Sam, wanting to comfort, wanting to hurt whatever is threatening his brother. He barely feels Jessica take his wrist, dimly hearing her voice against the roar in his head say, "It's time to go…"

In a flash, they are back at the motel, this time inside the room. The sound of a key card being swiped turns Dean's eyes towards the door, Jessica slightly behind him.

Sam stumbles in, barely aware of how he's gotten here, a dim memory of driving Pamela home and then here plays in his mind, his only clear thought being to find Dean.

Sam rubs his face trying to get back a semblance of sanity. He moves resolutely toward Dean's bed, turning on the bedside lamp as he stares down at his brother's face, searching for the familiar, searching for the Dean he knows, trying to wipe away the memory of the _other_.

He sits down heavily on the bed, watching Dean in restless sleep, seeing the nightmares chase each other across the furrowed brow, the tic in his brother's cheek moving in time.

Dean's eyes pop open with the movement of the bed "Sam? You ok?"

"No…I'm…I just wanted to…Dean…you're strong…strongest person I know…never doubted you, not once…not weak…not weak…" His words slurring through the tightness in his throat, he trails off into a long silence.

"What're you, drunk? Go back to bed, Sam…sleep it off…"

"Dean…" Sam's choking with emotion, face working pathetically, "You don't have to hide from me anymore…I've seen you…off the rack…I've _**seen**_ you…"

Dean sits up suddenly, his whole body wired and ready to spring, his eyes watchful. "What are you talking about?"

"I had Pam help…help me…Oh, God…what I saw…" Sam pushes his palms into his eyes, digging deep, rocking back and forth, lost inside his mind.

Dean grabs his brother's shoulders, gripping painfully, tightly, giving him two sharp shakes, "What the hell are you --? Sam! Tell me what you did!"

Dean's harsh bark, that voice of his childhood, the never to be disobeyed, 'don't mess with me cause I'm older than you and I can kick your ass' voice that always made Sam snap to attention. It works now, like always, penetrating the dark corner of Sam's mind where he desperately hides, having seen the bowels of hell and come back to the light, only to find no light.

Sam blurts the words out fast to get rid of them, "I wanted to…see what you saw…what you went through…so I could help…I asked Pam to channel it…we didn't know if it would work…but it did…I saw you…what they did to you…what you became…_Jesus,_ _what they did to you_…" His bile rising suddenly, Sam lurches out of Dean's grasp towards the trash basket where he loses last night's dinner, coughing and heaving even when there is no more to vomit.

Stunned, Dean can't think. Sammy knows….he _saw…_saw him torture and mutilate, rip and maim, tear and slice…and kill…over and over again. Dean turns his mind away, unable to wrap his brain around Sam seeing. It's a miracle Sam can even _look_ at him now...he should be disgusted...repulsed...like Dean is.

He feels the anger build, familiar, even welcoming because it's better than feeling nothing at all. The pureness of it clears his mind, the cold settling around his heart and freezing it in place. With barely disguised fury, he grinds out each word, "Sam…how could you do that? You had no right…no right…"

Sam sits back on his haunches, confused and wary at his brother's tone, searching Dean's face for some direction, some guidance "What?"

Before Sam can react, Dean jumps up, grabs him from his crouch on the floor and slams him against the wall, rage twisting his face, "Damn it, Sam! That wasn't up to you!"

He pulls Sam away from the wall, smashing him backwards again, making his head whap painfully on the peeling wallpaper, "You had no right to see me like that!"

Dean draws back a fist, punching him so hard and fast that Sam's head and upper body whip around by the force of it. Another clip to the jaw comes before Sam can get his hands up to protect himself. The trickle of blood from his mouth licks a white-hot anger through Sam's belly, the flash of emotion an after-effect of being at hell's doorway.

"Let go of me!" Sam shoves Dean away, knocking him off-balance and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Both breathing harshly, they size each other up. Sam lifts his chin, "What, you wanna hit me some more? Go ahead! Come on…hit me!"

Dean pulls back to let another one fly but Sam blocks him, bringing his own fist up into Dean's gut, doubling his brother over in sudden pain. Without pause, Sam catches Dean under the chin with another sharp blow. Dean stumbles backwards, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand in disbelief…Sam's never hit back, not unless he was demon-possessed.

With the horrific images fried into his skull, it's easier to hit back rather than think and Sam snarls at Dean visciously, "I had no right!? I'm the only one that does, Dean!"

His mind whispering with insanities, he grabs Dean by the front of his t-shirt and swings again, smashing his fist against Dean's mouth, "You went there cause of me! You died for me! I had a right to see where you went…what you became! You selfish, sick son of a bitch! You should have been ok without me! But _no_! Gotta sell your soul…gotta be the _friggin' hero_! Who asked you to?"

Sam draws back to slug again but Dean beats him to it, whipping Sam's head around with the force of a blow he never saw coming. Sam gets his balance and jumps on Dean, wrestling him to the ground, punching wildly in the stomach and ribs, "Selfish bastard! You had no right! I never asked you to and I sure as hell never wanted you to! I hate you for doing this…hate you, you stupid, stupid…" Sam's voice breaks and he stops hitting at his brother lying still beneath him, all fight gone out of him. He gets up, staring at Dean through eyes stinging with tears, "Damn you, Dean….damn you to hell…"

Grabbing his duffel bag, Sam wipes his nose and looks back, "I just wanted my brother back" he says with a half-sob, "I wanted to help you become Dean again…that's why I did it……Now, I have to live with what they did to you…what they turned you into...because of me…" his face works, struggling to hold back the screams that constantly threatening to spill out "I…can't…" is all he can say as he bolts for the door. He runs out and by the time Dean gets there, he's disappeared into the snow.

"Sammy!" Dean calls him back, his voice echoing in the still night air. He tries again, "Sam!" but his brother is gone.

Dean shuffles back in to sit dejectedly on the bed, dumbfounded at how quickly his world went sideways. He stares straight ahead, consumed with the memories of his time in hell, letting himself go back to that time. He chokes up at the thought of what Sam saw, whispering to the empty room, "I'm so sorry, Sammy…I'm so sorry…"

Watching his very worst fears unfold, Dean, with ghost Jessica by his side, can only echo his counterpart on the bed, "I'm sorry, too, Sammy…"

Jessica touches his shoulder, sadness in every word, "You and Sam never see each other again…"

"What? No…." His eyes widen in disbelief as he looks at the door of the motel, "No, you got it wrong, Jess…he'll come back…he has to…" but she's gone and he stands alone. As he watches, the Dean sitting on the bed begin to rock aimlessly, head in hands, keeping up a constant whisper, "So sorry…so sorry…"

"Dean…" A woman's voice behind him and he turns, seeing the familiar face, hearing the voice of pure love, feeling her warmth radiate out to him. It's the last straw and it breaks him, leaving him to stumble into her open arms, gripping her like he'll never let go.

He stutters her name as he buries his face in her soft neck, "M-m-mom…?"


	6. Chapter 6

His mom's hug is safe and warm, a balm on his raw spirit, and Dean desperately clings to her, longer than he should have probably but unwilling, unable to let her go. Finally, he steps back to study her face, memorizing every line so he can pull it back whenever he needs.

Her eyes…her eyes are the saddest he's ever seen. She reaches up to cup his face with a soft hand, lips trying to curve into a smile but failing halfway there.

"Mom…where's...where's Sam? He took off…and Jessica said…well, she's wrong, that's all, but he left without his coat and it's so cold…Stupid kid never did know enough to stay warm…" Dean falls back into the only role he's ever known, taking care of his brother, the familiar giving him comfort like a second skin.

The other Dean, rocking on the bed, has disappeared. The room seems different, changed somehow. Could have sworn that blanket was a different color a minute ago and the beds are made now. His stuff's gone, too.

"When...when is this?" he asks his mom.

"It's time yet to be..."

"You mean this is the future, my future? Where the hell's Sam, Mom? He never came back?" Concern flip flops with annoyance in his gut, as he's sure Sam's simply pissed off at him and laying low but still…where in hell _is_ he? Sam said some serious shit, pulled that stupid stunt and Dean's nowhere near forgiving anything he did but still…after what Jessica said…well, Dean just wants to see him and know that he's okay.

"Dean…" Mary drops her hand to his wrist, her fingers curling around it tightly "I know where Sam is…Come…I'll show you…"

Flying through the night sky, his mom leads the way through country and then into city, streets quiet now with the lateness of the hour but crowded with sleeping cars, parking meters and crawling police cruisers. Taking his hand, Mary sets them down gently in a hospital parking lot, ambulance sirens screaming in, nurses and residents rushing helter-skelter to help incoming wounded.

Feeling a lick of fear, Dean whispers "Mom, is Sam hurt? Is he ok?"

No response but Dean reads her eyes, the sorrow and pain a pulsing thing.

"Mom, where's Sam?" but he really doesn't want to know anymore because he _knows_ in his bowels...in the shiver that snakes up his spine…but to give it words is to give it life…and that is something he can't do.

Mary simply points towards an ambulance pulling in the parking lot, coming in quiet and slow, the lack of urgency telling its own story. Backing up to the ER doors, one paramedic jumps out to open the back. Nurses and doctors help him pull out the gurney and snap the legs down. A sheet covers the body, the blood-soaked circle on top a scream against the white linen.

"What do you got?" A white-coated man asks.

The ambulance driver reads from a clipboard, "24 year old male, John Doe, found in motel room, victim of stabbing…probably self-inflicted. Multiple IDs found so identification impossible. Victim was pronounced dead on the scene."

A plastic bag is handed over, the demon knife, drenched in blood, inside.

"What's this?" a nurse takes it, turning it over with barely concealed disgust at the gore covering it.

The second paramedic answers, "Found on the scene…looks like that's what he used to do it…you should see this guy…he wasn't taking any chances that he'd live…sliced himself from top to bottom…gave lots of attention to stabbing his heart while he waited to bleed to death…must have taken some time…he just watched himself die…"

The ambulance driver chimed in "Motel owner said he was psycho…off his nut…kept rambling on about how he couldn't get clean…kept showering…that's where we found him…water still running down…his skin's pretty much scoured off…"

The nurse flips back the sheet and Sam's face stares up at Dean, eyes wide open, focused on something only Sam could see. Dean hears a keening noise over the roar in his ears, growing in intensity and pitch until it's everywhere…and he's wishing that whoever's doing that stupid noise would just _shut up already_…realizing too late that it's coming from his own throat and cutting it off abruptly.

"Right, let's get him to the morgue then…" White-coat is impatient, eager to work on living people, dismissing Sam's body with a carelessness that has Dean ready to rip out his throat.

"Don't you touch him" Dean spits out, grabbing the stretcher his brother lay on and holding it tightly, unwilling to let him go. The nurse replaces the sheet over Sam's face and begins to push, pushing right through Dean as he stands there.

"No, you let him go…" Dean runs after her, trying to find purchase on the gurney to take his brother from her and run away, as far away as he can get, but his fingers slip off…can't grab a damn thing!

"Dean…" his mom calls to him.

Whipping around, he stares at her, mouth working convulsively "Mom…not Sam…no! NO!" Big whopping tears start streaming down his face like a big old crybaby…like he always used to call Sam…Dizzy now, he puts his head down, hands on his knees, taking in big gulps of air to stop from passing out and the tears plop to the pavement. Stupid, stupid kid! Damn it, Sammy! His shoulders heave as he tries to stop the freaking _noises_ coming out of him…

Mary reaches out to take his wrist and he yanks away from her, knowing her touch will make him accept, make him acknowledge and he _can't…_

Mary tilts her head at him, "Dean…Sam couldn't live with what he saw happen to you in hell. He lived with the guilt and horror for days…he tried…but he knew you would never be the same and it was his fault. He couldn't help you be whole again. You weren't willing to give up your own hate…of yourself and the demons who tortured you…That hate spilled onto Sam…that's why he went to hell in the first place."

Dean stands up, his head still spinning but no danger of passing out, though he'd welcome blackness right about now. He swipes a palm across his face, trying to block out his mother's words, trying to hold onto the rage inside.

His mom gives him a tender look, "You can't forgive yourself for what you became … Sam felt you couldn't forgive him for dying in the first place and forcing you to making that deal. His guilt crushed him…he hadn't been able to save you when you went to hell and he couldn't save you now. He couldn't even tell you how much he loved you…how much he still looked up to you…because by the time he realized that was what you needed, he was half crazy from his look into the pit."

She reaches out, touching his shoulder, "We have to go to the morgue. It's your final destination. Please, Dean…come with me…"

Watching Sam being pushed down the hall, Dean can do nothing else but go, because to leave his brother's side is something he will never do.


	7. Chapter 7

The silence in the room is shattered as two large doors swing in, hit from the outside by the gurney carrying Sam.

"John Doe…" the nurse tells the orderly who lowers the volume on the TV show he's watching and comes over, taking the chart she hands to him, "You need to fingerprint him so we can find next of kin…have a nice day…" she throws back over her shoulder as she leaves the room.

The orderly pulls Sam's stretcher the rest of the way in, stopping to fill out a tag and slip it on a bare toe. He glances through the chart and curious, pulls back the sheet to see the damage the nut job did to himself. Hissing through his teeth at the sight of the wounds on the young man's body, he shakes his head in disgust…poor kid…from the looks, he was trying to cut something out of himself.

Putting a call through to the ME, he describes the case and they agree a post is necessary. Covering Sam's body back up to the neck, he pushes the gurney into the examination room where it waits, with infinite patience, under bright lights until an autopsy can be performed. He goes back to his TV show without a backward glance.

Dean stares down at Sam with dead eyes, his grief heavy, his shoulders hunched forward like an old man. He bends his head over his little brother, reaching out a hand to stroke Sam's hair, remembering the little boy who came to him with nightmares, questions, cuts and bruises. How many times has he stroked this head to quiet a bad dream or soothe some hurt? More than he can remember...

"Why, Sam?" he whispers, his voice as shaky as the rest of him, "You should have come to me…let me help you…"

He stands, glancing back at his mom before looking back down at Sam. His voice cracks with harshness, "You know, if I have to make the same choice again…go to hell so that Sam lives…I'll do it again…every time…"

Mary replies softly "I don't think Sam knew that, Dean. Since you got back, all he's seen is you hurting…having nightmares, drinking, denying anything's wrong. You barely let him in when you _did_ talk about it so his imagination had to fill in the rest. Maybe if you had told him…if he knew that you would die for him all over again…maybe that would have made a difference."

She comes to stand near him, touching him so he'll look at her, "Sometimes…sometimes…just _knowing_ something is true leads to healing…"

The room changes slightly, twitching, trembling, a sound growing up from the floor so softly that Dean isn't sure he's hearing it. More sounds now, from all around him, all come together, growing in clarity until he can just make out the murmur of voices. A low purr of one or two sounds swells into many, overlapping in a hum that surrounds him, until his ears are filled with mumbling, whispering voices.

The figures come next, appearing out of thin air, moving to encircle him and Sam, taking on solid form as they draw close. Their faces are empty of emotion, their eyes ageless and aged, men and women stand together, all staring at his face.

Uneasy, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to rise, Dean crowds closer to Sam, turning to face them and shielding Sam at the same time. With a hunter's instinct, he counts heads, figuring out his chances of survival. Not good, especially since he'll be carrying Sam, cause there's no way Dean's leaving here without him.

"Mom? Mom! Are you ok?" he calls through the hum of voices, searching for her face among them.

"I'm here, Dean." Mary moves towards him, the crowd parting to let her through.

"What's going on, Mom? Who are these people?"

Before she can answer, a man with black-horned rimmed glasses, taped in the middle, steps forward. A pocketful of pencils in his button-down, yellow bow tie and pressed pants make him less threatening but no less strange.

His blank eyes stare into Dean's green ones, seeming to see into his soul, "Hello, Dean."

"Do I know you?" Dean asks sharply, edgy, ready to swing at a moment's notice.

"Yes…but maybe you'll remember me better this way" and his face stretches into a scream, clothes melting away to reveal a bloody pulp with big chunks of his body in pieces or missing, eyes intact to witness the horror that has done this to him.

Dean's body snaps back in shock. Sweet Jesus…he _remembers_…

With the blink of an eye, the man in front of Dean is whole again "You were our torturer in Hell, Dean Winchester. You were the last face we saw each night, the first we saw each day…you were the one who ripped us apart every endless day, putting us back together again the next so you could do it all over again. You made us became torturers ourselves."

His jaws held tight, a tic in Dean's cheek works as he swallows over the dry lump in his throat. He scans all the faces, now nodding in agreement with the speaker, and feels his heart pounding so hard, he thinks it will burst out of his chest any second to spew his life-blood around the room, maybe finally, _finally_ ending his misery.

"I..uh…" Dean swallows again and clears his throat, "uh…I…don't…" he spreads his hands helplessly, finding no words to excuse or explain, unable to say what's in his heart, in his gut.

He sucks in a shaky breath to try again, "I'm sorry…" he mutters lamely and then louder, "I'm so Christ-Almighty sorry! Sorry I hurt you, sorry I couldn't hang on any longer…sorry I saved myself instead of you! And I know I don't deserve forgiveness…or absolution…" Dean exhales sharply, "I don't deserve a damn thing…what I did, what I turned into…was…an abomination…and…all I can do is..." he looks around at each face, his words useless, inadequate, "say that I'm so very sorry."

The man holds up a hand, "Dean Winchester…if it hadn't been you, it would have been another who tortured us. We're in hell because of decisions we made, choices you had nothing to do with, and because of that, we ended up in eternal torment. Make no mistake…we are not righteous or good people and must now suffer the consequences of our acts. We deserve our punishment; it's required to complete the contracts we all signed. It continues even now. We accept what must be. You're the only one who is suffering from conscience…You're the only one who can stop your suffering."

The faces before him fade away as suddenly as they came and the silence, so loud now, is broken only by the ticking of the clock on one wall.

Dean looks around, "Where'd they go?"

Mary smiles at him tenderly, "Back where they belong. Dean, you have to stop ripping yourself apart because of what you were forced to do to survive. You _had_ to survive. It's ok to suffer about it and Lord knows, you've done enough of that to last you ten lifetimes but it's time to move on. The faces of the people you tortured are all burned into your mind...you may never forget but you _can_ accept...accept those memories will always be with you. Live with them; use them to give you strength to fight another day so that no one else has to go through what you have…"

"Even if I do, mom…even if I can accept…what good will it do now? Sammy…Sam is de-". Dean feels his throat close and forces out the word, "dead and nothing matters anymore, nothing at all…"

Leaning forward, Mary takes his hand and puts something cold and hard in his palm, cupping his other hand on top. She takes his wrist, kisses his cheek and murmurs, "Christmas is a time for miracles…"


	8. Chapter 8

**This is it. Thanks for sticking with me to the end. Man, this was a hard one to write. I wanted it to be perfect but it's ...ok... I hope you find it a satisfying finish.**

**

Dean's eyes snap open, taking a quick inventory of his surroundings without moving a muscle. He's back in the motel, in his bed, right where he was when this night started so long ago. Glancing sideways at the clock, he stiffens, almost sits up. _Christ, is he too late? _

Movement in the room quiets his jangling spine and he forces his breathing to slow, deepen, half-closing his eyes so he looks asleep. He hears a _whump _as Sam bangs a toe on a chair, a quiet curse following that, and then comes the whisper of a zipper moving up a jacket. A familiar clink tells Dean that Sam has snagged the keys to the Impala from Dean's coat pocket. More shuffling and a pause, Sam's at the foot of his bed, looking down on him in the dark. Dean keeps his breathing even, steady until finally, Sam moves to the door, easing it open. Wind ruffles over Dean's bed as Sam pulls the door shut behind him with a quiet snap.

Waiting, Dean clutches the piece of metal his mom gave him as if his life depends on it, because Sam's life does. Dean doesn't know how she got it or how she was able to breach the gap between her world and this one, but it doesn't matter now. All that's important is that she's still his mom, ghost or not and she isn't about to let one of her sons die when she can stop it. He hears a motor outside, revving over and over but refusing to catch. He pushes the cold metal under his pillow.

"Don't flood the damn thing, dude…" Dean mumbles, still waiting.

The door to the room slams open and Dean sits up in the dark, startled, "Sam? What the hell…?"

"Dean, the damn car won't start!"

Reaching out to click on the light, Dean snaps "What do you mean, won't start? What'd you'd do to my car, Sam? What'd you break?"

"I didn't break anything, Dean! It turns over but won't catch! Damn it!" Sam swings the door shut with a forceful bang and throws the keys on the desk near the door.

"Well, I'll look at it in the morning, Sam. Nothing much I can do about it tonight – it's dark out and snowing from the look of you…it can wait a couple hours. It's the middle of the freaking night anyway…where are you going?"

"What? Oh…I had a…date…"

"A date?" Dean looks pointedly at the clock, "With who? We've only been in town since this afternoon and I was with you the whole time…you haven't had a chance to meet anyone."

"Nobody…never mind…I…guess I'll just have to…reschedule…Go back to sleep" Sam shrugs out of his coat and kicks off his shoes. He grabs his pajama pants and cell phone, goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

Dean can hear mumbling through the door as Sam talks on the phone to his "date".

Dean lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding with a weak, "phew…" and reaches over to turn out the light, laying back down to wait.

Sam comes out of the bathroom ten minutes later to stretch out on his bed, looking over at Dean in the dark, searching to see if he's still awake or if he's already in the throes of another nightmare.

"Dean, you asleep?" Sam murmurs quietly.

Dean doesn't move, doesn't respond, concentrating on moving his breath in and out, steady, slow, trying to lull Sam away from worrying about him so he'll go to sleep. After a minute more, Sam gives a sigh and turns, rolling over onto his belly to hug a pillow, getting comfortable.

Twenty minutes later, Sam's slight snore tells Dean it's safe to move.

He quietly gets out of his bed, puts on his shoes and coat and picks up the car keys, hefting the 'gift' from his mom in his hand. On silent feet, he slides opens the door and goes into the night, shutting it behind him gently and crossing to his car. He opens the driver's door slowly, holding his breath, hoping the familiar creak won't wake Sam.

Dean pops the hood, reaching underneath to replace the distributor cap his mom gave him, snapping it firmly in place, and closing the hood. Climbing into the driver's seat, a smile lights his face as, turning the key in the ignition, he feels the powerful engine catch and purr "There's my baby…" he murmurs lovingly.

On his way to an all-night department store, Dean puts a call through to Pamela Barnes, psychic extraordinaire and apparent travel agent to Hell.

"Hello?"

"Pam? It's Dean"

"Dean! You knew I was sitting here thinking lustful thoughts about you, didn't you?"

"Listen, Pam, I don't have much time and this is gonna sound all buckets of crazy but you gotta believe me, ok? Cause it's the God's honest truth…"

The psychic listens in disbelief to Dean's bizarre night, chuckling about three ghosts coming to visit him on Christmas Eve and tossing out a couple of 'Scrooge' comments but becoming deadly serious when Dean tells her he knows what her and Sam are up to.

"Did Sam tell you?" Pamela asks quietly, knowing Sam would never have revealed his plans to his brother.

"No, a ghost did…she brought me to where you were having your little session and I watched the whole thing. Seeing me in Hell is too much for Sam. He comes back from dropping you off and we get into this freaking awful fight…he takes off and next thing I know…" Dean closes his eyes, choking on the memory, "he's lying in the morgue, dead…he killed himself, Pam…he couldn't…" Swallows hard, "Shit…I can't even…"

"What? No! Well, I just won't do it, that's all! Then nothing can happen, right? I'll back out…tell him it's too dangerous or something…Dean, I don't know what really happened to you tonight but if there's even a chance that Sam or you would get hurt by this, then I'm done."

She pauses, thinking, and then "Listen, if Sam really wants to do this, he's going to eventually find someone willing to help him. You have to make it so he doesn't even _want_ to do it. You need to make him believe you're ok…even if you're not. Are you going to be able to do that?"

"I have to, Pam…cause I can't lose him again" Dean's throat works painfully, "I can't see him like that…ever again…" He hangs up quickly, a rush of emotion hitting him like a wall, sweeping through his clenched teeth, whistling out of him harshly.

What the hell? First he can't feel anything and now…it's overwhelming, almost more than he can handle. Ever since he saw Sammy there with his gut ripped open, he lost the anger, the rage that served him so well in the pit and followed him back home…he tried so _hard_ to hang onto it but it snapped away from him as soon as that damn nurse pulled back the sheet and he looked into Sam's dead eyes…and now look at him…stupid emotional freaking _girl_…

Dean roughly rubs his eyes…snap _out_ of it already…get some control or nothing's gonna get fixed…Ok…just…ok…breathe…breathe…in…out…Sam's alive…focus on keeping him that way…

He pulls the car into the store parking lot and runs in, takes care of his business and drives back to the motel, parking the car before making his way silently back into the room.

Carefully, quietly, he arranges things to his satisfaction, smiling gently at Sam sleeping in the dark. Before he can stop himself, he reaches down a hand to stroke Sam's hair lightly, so Christ Almighty thankful to be able to do the familiar gesture again. He knows Sam'll be pissed off royally if he wakes up and finds Dean petting him like a dog but he doesn't care…after the night he's had, Dean's entitled. Sam stirs, making Dean hold his breath, drop his hand and move away to his own bed where he kicks off his shoes and lays down.

Feeling his tense muscles relax, he rubs his gritty eyes and briefly wonders where the hell his scotch flask is. He doesn't want the nightmares to come tonight, not on Christmas Eve, especially after the night he's already had, so he really should take a couple of belts just to be sure he gets a little sleep. Before he can roll over to feel for the bottle under the bed, he's out cold, a dreamless sleep sweeping over him, holding him warm and safe as a cocoon.

The heat on his face has Dean blinking in the bright sunlight, streaming in on him from the partly open curtains. Refreshed and alert for the first time in almost three months, he rolls over to look at Sam, still snoring softly in the next bed.

Dean snakes out an arm to pick up the keys where he threw them on the bedside table, holds them high and lets them drop back down with a clatter, quickly pulling his arm back under the covers and feigning sleep, a half-smile tugging on his lips.

Sam snorts awake and rolls over, looking around to find out what woke him. He hears a rustling at his feet and sits up, a look of wonder coming over his face at the brightly wrapped gifts piled at the foot of his bed.

Dean, peeking under an arm, sees a wide grin split his brother's face and he looks towards Dean, catching him watching.

With a delighted laugh, Sam's dimples show "Dude! You haven't done this in years! Not since I started hunting with you again!"

Dean sits up, shrugging to be cool, "Who says it was me? Maybe it's Santa Clause?"

"Uh-uh, not this time, Dean! This time, you're getting the credit!"

"Oh, shut up and open your presents, Sam…" Dean mock-glares at him.

"Dean…are you…ok? I mean, what brought this on?"

"I'm…working on it, Sammy…doing the best I can…now open the gifts before I…I mean, Santa, takes them all back…"

Dean watches with pleasure as with child-like delight, Sam grabs the first gift, ripping the wrapping away with a flourish. A new laptop stares up at him and Sam's mouth drops open, "Dean…we can't afford this…you didn't steal this, did you?"

"No, man…hustled a couple extra games of pool's all…besides, figured I could have your old one for my porn sites…" Dean raises his eyebrows a couple of times making Sam laugh out loud.

Sam reaches out an arm to snag another package, a small one that has him chuckling when he opens it, a hand-written note in which Dean gives him 'one free night to use your I-Pod in the car and listen to whatever lame music you want".

Another package opens to reveal coupons for burritos taped to a can of air freshener with a note 'permission to be gassy'.

Sam tears open the paper on the next gift to find a comb and scissors, to which Sam tosses his bangs back and says, "No way, Dude!" with a grin.

"Listen, Sasquatch, I can't hardly see your face…you need a cut!" Dean retorts.

The last small package is unwrapped and Sam, speechless, swallows hard. He looks at Dean with a glint of tears and says, "Thanks, man…" picking up his own set of keys to the Impala, "This is…just…thanks…"

"You like them?"

"Yea…"

Dean says quietly, "I have one more for you, Sammy…"

"More? Dean, come on…"

Dean gets down on one knee and feels around the floor. Finding his scotch flask, he drops it into Sam's lap. Sam hefts it in his hand, looking at Dean quizzically.

"Sam…I'm through with the drinking…I'm never gonna get past this if I keep drowning in a bottle of scotch…"

"Dean…"

Dean holds up a hand for Sam to let him talk, "I can't get rid of it…ever…but the most I can do…the _best _I can do is to try to accept it…what I did…what I had to do…and just take it one day at a time. It's not going to be easy…hell, I don't even know if I can but…I've got to try…without the hootch…to get better…"

He takes in a breath, "I just don't think I can do it alone, Sammy…"

"I can help you, Dean…just tell me what to do and I'll help…"

"I need you to listen. When I have the nightmares, I'll tell you everything…every detail of what I saw and how it was…but I need you to just…listen…no pity, no judging, no pep talks to make me feel better, no chick-flick stuff…cause that won't help me. Just sit with me, in the dark and let me tell you what it was like…maybe, if I say it out loud, it won't cut so much or hurt so much …think you can do that?"

At Sam's quick nod, Dean looks down at the floor, "I want you to know something…"

Sam starts to speak but thinks better of it and just waits.

"I'd…I'd do it all again today if I had to…sell my soul for you…go back to hell for you…because you're my brother…I'll do whatever's necessary to keep you alive… cause if anything happened to you and I couldn't fix things…" Dean swallows over the lump rising in his throat, "Well, I'd be done for, Sam…and I need for you to not do anything stupid that's gonna get you hurt. I need you to watch out for yourself, take care of yourself, so I don't have to worry about you while I'm working on me…"

Sam protests, "I won't do anything stup-"

"Sam, please…just think about consequences before you dive into something that'll only make things worse…please…"

Sam studies Dean's face before he nods, "Ok…ok…"

"Might take awhile…probably be rough…on both of us…me to go through and you to watch… sure you're up for it?" Dean searches for any hint that Sam's reluctant to help.

Sam raises an eyebrow, "Think you can get rid of me or something? I'm in." He stands up to throw the flask in the trashcan, clapping Dean on his shoulder, "I'm proud of you, man…you're my big brother…the strongest man I know and we can _do_ this…together…"

"Hope so…now get dressed, Sammy…it's fresh snow outside and I feel like kicking your ass in a snowball fight!"

"We have to fix the car first…"

"Car's fixed…just a loose wire…works fine now…"

Sammy remembers something and goes to his jacket, pulling whatever it is out of his pocket, "I found this in the car earlier…No idea where it came from…" and hands Dean a set of sleigh bells.

Dean grips them tightly and swears he sees, just for a moment over Sam's head, Jessica, his mom and his dad, all smiling down at him with loving pride. He blinks and they're gone but he knows…everything's gonna be ok now. An easy grin flashes across his face as he gives the bells a small shake, "Damn, Sammy…It's great to be alive….

"So help me, Dean, if you say, God Bless Us Everyone, I'm gonna puke…"

"Wouldn't be the first time I've seen you do that lately…"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, Sammy, nothing…"

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Right back atcha, Sammy…"

* then end *


End file.
